After leaving Fátima’s home, I hobbled along the cement path, squeezed between dwellings, heading upward. I was not sure of what direction to take, so I took the only one that would lead me away from those climbing the slum to catch me.
I glared at the sky through the gaps between two buildings. Trolleys were swaying down the support cables that bound the head of Gloria Santa to its foot. The cable car was up and running and squeaking.
Going down one of those trolleys became my one and only option. My chances had just improved. Not only now did I know that I had to keep going up the slopes, but I also had guidance, stretched across the sky, that would lead me to my goal.
The problem was walking in that white gown. On the slopes of Gloria Santa I looked like an escaped patient, enveloped in a cylindrical cloth that covered all from shoulders to knees. I had nowhere to conceal the pistol, not even panties. And even if I had, I knew I must be ready for any threat that might appear. The risk of carrying a pistol in open sight was lower than losing precious time while trying to unsheathe it from concealment.
My body screamed that something was wrong, that I was a stranger in that place. The broom shouted that I was hurt. And the pistol stated that no one would stand between me and my goal.
But what about Renato? Would his body still be on the Cable car platform? Would its floor still be stained by his blood? It was only last night that he died . . . only last night. Wasn’t it?
No, no thinking of Renato. He would want me to go back there, to take those trolleys down, to leave safe. Maybe I could leave flowers on the platform, something to honor his memory, to speak my pain. But there were no gardens among the withered walls of Gloria Santa.
The wind silenced. The more I went up the slopes, the screeching of iron grew louder, but the voices saying my name silenced. At each step I unraveled myself from that entanglement of corruption engulfing Rio. I could see it on the faces of those people, slum dwellers. They were startled after seeing me walk through pathways, gaped their mouths open, hid themselves inside their cement box homes.
I could feel their willingness to capture me. To give me away. Even to kill me had they had the opportunity. But now they wouldn’t be able to do so.
It was then that I laughed aloud.
“No more bitching!” I shouted. A cry of freedom.
Windows swung shut as I passed them.
When I snuck into the cable car’s platform, everything seemed normal. Trolleys were going past its loading site, people hopping in and out, but no lines had been formed to wait for them. I thought the place would be crowded with locals, but I was wrong.
The cable car was a clear connection to the bottom of the slum. An easy trip, safely hung away from the terrors on the hillside bellow. The gate that led to the loading platform, where Renato and I had been when the gunshot found his chest, was opened. But to reach the trolleys, I had to make it past the turnstiles.
I could make easy work of it. It was only a matter of jumping over it and entering the car.
But a man stood beside the turnstiles, checking everyone’s tickets, and that made things harder.
I moved closer to him. Some guys around stepped away. And the man, instead of heeding tickets, glared at my gun.
I’d met him before. I didn´t know the precise features of his time-beaten, etched with wrinkles face. But I remembered his overall scoop-shouldered, tiresome, body manners.
The night Renato had been killed, he was the man that attended us at that same cable car platform, behind the closed gate. He was the man who denied us help, and to whom Renato had hoisted the gun to prevent further harm to us. All to no avail.
“I need to come in, and I don’t have any money” I said, indifferent as to whether he was able to understand. But his gaped eyes, fixed against mine, hinted that he also recognized me.
He raised his hand, stepped backwards.
I hadn’t raised the gun, hadn’t threatened his life. Oh, I most definitely took offense at his body language.
“I’m not a criminal. Can’t you see how destroyed I am? Can’t you see it?” I waved the broom in his face.
He stepped farther away, said something in Portuguese. That I took as a consent for my coming in without a ticket.
I struggled to pass over the turnstile. My body felt like pain in solid form. I had limited movement in all joints. I heaved myself over the turnstile, sat on its cold steel, and turned around to set my feet inside the platform.
The cable car was mine. No one came into the loading platform after me. The man leaned back against the control room wall. A trolley was coming.
He waited. The coming car slid its door open. I was a step away from going down. Of letting everything behind. Of reaching the foot of Gloria Santa. Of finding my way to the US Embassy in Rio.
I just needed a taxi driver to collaborate with me. It was much easier to trust people with a gun in my hand.
But then I realized that the old man might spoil my plan. I would enter the trolley, head down, and then that man would make his calls, and the infernal loop would start again. And from this new one I might never be able to come back.
I stepped away from the trolley. Pointed the gun at him. Now he had a reason to fear me.
“Hey, into the trolley,
